A Murder of Crows
We amble the harvested fields. The rain has stopped. Water flows gentle rivulets down the ribs of an incline. Awash of seed and insects. A feast we peck as we stroll. Spooked, my comrades take flight. I follow, gaining altitude. The sun rips tears in the clouds as we soar above the patchwork. Stabbing pain enters my flank. Pink mist sprays out my side as my torso’s torn asunder. I can no longer fly. My wings no longer obey. I see my comrades, their bodies rend in halves by some invisible vigor. It is then I recognize the cracks that echo through the sky. We fall. We are not hapless fowl downed by apex predators to feed their brood — no dignified death our fate. We are crows. Shot for sport. Left to rot.